


Unmentionable

by All_the_damned_vampires



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Fingering, Angst and Humor, Cursed Object, Dean in Panties, Emotional Constipation, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Sex in the Impala, no chick flick moments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-19
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-07 15:20:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5461265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/All_the_damned_vampires/pseuds/All_the_damned_vampires
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean gets in over his head with a cursed object.  Sam wants to help.  Of course Dean doesn’t want to talk about it.  Set sometime early on in the pre-Carver era.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unmentionable

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vampireisthenewblack](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vampireisthenewblack/gifts).



> A Xmas exchange gift for vampthenewblack, who requested boys in knickers* (it's all about stuffing big hard dicks in tiny scraps of lace - bonus points for coming through the fabric)
> 
> *provided I didn’t use the word “panties” or “knickers” to talk about what the boys were wearing.
> 
> I hope I rose to the challenge, dear giftee. Please enjoy.
> 
> Thanks to dugindeep for the awesome beta.

 

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“But Dean, how did you even—“

“No.  Nope.  Sorry I brought it up. This conversation is over.”

“I’m just trying to understand.  If you knew they were cursed—“

“I said I don’t want to talk about it!”

“Dude.  Can…can I see them?”

Dean cranked up AC/DC with a mutinous look on his face and, for the next four hours, Sam was resigned to have his ear drums blasted with cock rock as he watched his brother squirm and shift in the driver’s seat.  Not another word was exchanged.  All Sam could do was sit and quietly wonder, waiting Dean out as always, blowing his bangs off his forehead with a puff of air from his pursed lips.

“I need a drink,” Dean muttered as they pulled into the parking lot of the first no-account motel they came across.  He tossed Sam the car keys and stalked back towards the roadhouse they’d passed on the last turn.  Sam watched Dean twitch his ass, one hand shifting back to almost tug on the seat of his jeans.  He turned and caught Sam watching then scowled.

**

“But, why did you put them on in the first place?”

“I didn’t see the…letter…until after.”

“That doesn’t explain anything.  Do you think you were compelled?”

“Dude, I have no idea.  Help me.  I’m dying here.”

“Only you would turn a simple salt and burn at a haunted whorehouse—“

“I’ve heard it already, Sam! Give it a rest!”

“Well, let’s have a look.”

“Trying to get in my pants again, Sammy?” The tone sounded more desperate than the cocky, confident flirt Sam’s brother usually was.

It had been three days.  Three days in which Sam had watched Dean tuck himself into bed still in his jeans, and then spend the night tossing and turning, soft mumbles and moans issuing from his mouth.  Three days in which Dean had stormed over to the closest dive every night and yet had come home alone.  They both were sleepless and irritable.

“I can’t help you if you don’t show me,” Sam said patiently. He was used to his brother sashaying around in just his boxers, rolling out of bed shirtless with a grin, bounding out of the shower in just a towel.  He was used to sitting in the car late at night, book in his lap, watching the shadows through the motel curtains.  He was used to Dean with something to prove.  This haunted version of his brother, covered up and wary, was too painfully reminiscent of an earlier time and place.

“No.” Dean crossed his arms.

“Did you try taking them off?”

“Duh.  They’re not coming off.”

“We can read up on the lore if—“

“I burned the letter,” Dean huffed.

“So I can’t see them and I can’t research the curse,” Sam said slowly. “I’m beginning to think you don’t know what the words ‘help me’ mean.”

“I know what I have to do,” Dean growled. “I’ve been trying.  It isn’t working.”

“What is it?”

“None of your business,” Dean answered, looking guilty as hell.

“Maybe we should call Bobby—“

“No! Dammit, Sam!”

Then Dean was storming out of the motel room, hips twitching like a restless cat, and Sam sighed and pressed his fingers to his eyes.  He wondered when Dean would finally break down and let Sam in.

**

Sam slowly pushed the door to the motel room open.  Two weeks.  Two weeks of his brother restless and aggressive and angry.  Two weeks of Dean’s jeans getting progressively filthier, a gamey stench lingering in the Impala’s interior.  Sam had taken a slap to the back of the head for the coffee spill, but it was worth it if it was going to get Dean out of his pants and reveal the problem to Sam.

Dean stood in the doorway of the bathroom, his back to Sam.  For a moment, Sam forgot his original purpose.  Before, when Dean would flaunt his body, Sam had always made sure to avert his eyes, in fact, to roll them if he could.  _You don’t affect me._   It was a test, Sam was sure; Dean wanting to make sure things were different between them.  The awkwardness of Sam’s childish gaffe swept away by time and nonchalance, by Sam’s Stanford seclusion.

Even standing under the cheap, buzzing fluorescent lights, Dean was glorious.  Sam let his eyes drift up and down the strong curve of Dean’s naked back, all that smooth freckled skin, the almost tactile arch of his shoulder blades.  That place at the nape of Dean’s neck where his hair was buzzed short, dark golden and soft to the touch.  Sam let his gaze dance down to the sway of Dean’s back, to the scalloped, pink, lacy frill—

Sam coughed in surprise and Dean spun around, his face horrified.

“Dude!  Privacy!”  Sam’s brother held a tiny, damp washcloth in one hand, which he now waved uselessly in front of his crotch, concealing nothing.

“You’re.  You’re wearing—“

“Shout it to the world, Sam, Christ!” Dean darted across the room, grabbed Sam’s arm and hustled him inside the motel room, slamming the door shut.

“Pink.”

“Yeah, pink.  So now you know.  They don’t come off.  Giving myself a sponge bath like some old dude at a nursing home.”

“I just--“ Sam found himself remembering—his feigned disinterest, his indifference—and tried to avert his eyes.  It was impossible.

“You wanted to look, hotshot, so look.”  Dean tossed the washcloth in the general direction of the bathroom and stood in the middle of the room, arms at his sides.

Now was the moment for Sam to study the cursed object Dean had unwittingly acquired—a little pink scrap of almost nothing—and analyze their current problem.  Instead, Sam took Dean at his word. He looked.  He looked as he hadn’t since he was sixteen, when Dean’s beauty had been burned into the back of his eyes, into his memory, even as his skinny shoulders had stung from Dean’s hard shove.

That beloved face, bottle green eyes and soft, pink mouth.  The lean cheeks and the damp hollow of Dean’s throat.  Down the lines of Dean’s chest—Sam’s gaze lingering on the soft peaks of Dean’s nipples—across Dean’s belly, still a bit soft even as fit as he was.  When Sam let his eyes drift back up to Dean’s face, he could see his brother was trembling.

“So, fix it, genius,” Dean mumbled and Sam quickly glanced down at what he should have been looking at in the first place.

Perhaps that was a mistake.  It was a very feminine undergarment—tap pants, Sam’s mind supplied—light, blossom pink and satiny.  The fabric curved in little, fluttery scallops high up on Dean’s thighs.  Such a delicate bit of fancy should have looked ridiculous on a man, but it fit.  It fit Dean.  The lacey edges cradled and cupped every inch of Dean’s flesh.  Behind its curtain of pink satin, Dean’s dick twitched and Sam swallowed hard.

“I…um, so we could try cutting them off.”

“Already tried,” Dean sighed, tugging at the frilly waist fretfully. “Ditto for burning them off, and I deserve all the cookies in the world for putting a lighter that close to my junk.”

Sam couldn’t stop staring.  As he looked at Dean, his brother gave a small hiss and Sam watched with no small amount of hunger as Dean’s dick began to harden, rippling the pink fabric covering, stretching, and distorting it.  Soon, the tip of Dean’s cock—a rosier pink than the satin waistband constricting it—was pushing over the top of the fabric like a slippery-skinned dolphin surfacing for breath.  Dean’s hand fumbled toward his dick—as if he might stroke it or soothe it—then he caught Sam looking and shifted his hand away.

“Dean…”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Sammy.” Dean laughed mirthlessly. “Happens on the regular.  Like clockwork.  Random boners are just part of the curse.”

“Did you try giving yourself a hand?”

“Of course I did!  Doesn’t work.”  Pink on his cheeks and chest now, Dean strode over to his duffle and hauled out a cleaner pair of jeans.

“Maybe I could…”  The words were out of Sam’s mouth before he realized what he was saying.  Dean’s head jerked up sharply and suddenly Sam was smaller, much smaller, heartsick and ashamed.

“Curse calls for a specific act, Sam,” Dean said after a tense moment. “I’ve been trying.  I’ll keep trying.  It’ll work itself out.  I got this.”

**

“This isn’t working.”

Sam watched Dean drop his head on the bar top and winced.  They were in a nicer bar than their regular haunts—courtesy of the nearby college town—but the dark wood bar under Sam’s palm was still slightly sticky.

“Stop rejecting them,” Sam replied evenly.  He thought he had gotten used to Dean throwing himself at everything that moved.  The girls with the mermaid hair and the bubbly laughs, everything that Dean wanted and that Sam could never be.  He was used to tuning it out.

Playing wingman in some quest to satisfy the mystery needs of Dean’s curse put Sam up close and personal to what he didn’t want to see.  The want and the jealousy were still there, still simmering under Sam’s skin.

“I’m not rejecting them,” Dean muttered from under his arm. “My whore’s drawers are.  Damn things are apparently really picky.”

“If you just tell me, maybe I can help.  What does it need?”

Dean raised his head and looked at his brother.  Sam could see purple shadows under Dean’s eyes from lack of sleep.  He still was more beautiful than he had a right to be.

“I got it,” Dean said quietly.  “Just…hang here.  I’m going in.”  He waded away from the bar and into the crowd.

“Okay,” Sam called, trying to look supportive.

She was a blonde in a tight, red tank top and cutoff denim shorts, platform flip-flops on her manicured feet.  Sam watched Dean swoop in with a practiced smile.  The girl flipped her hair behind her shoulder and arched her back.  But as her hand drifted towards Dean’s belt loop, his hips jerked away as if stung.

A few minutes later Dean was stomping back to the bar, head hung like a scolded kid.

“Let’s go, Sam,” Dean said, and Sam slipped off the barstool and followed his brother out the door.

**

Week three.  More bars, no…well, whatever Dean needed.  Sam was tired.  He was tired of lying awake listening to a half-conscious Dean make little sex moans and toss under the covers.  He was tired of his usually gregarious brother’s pissy attitude.  Most of all, he was tired of watching girl after girl—with even the occasional guy in the more liberal minded of towns—fling themselves at his brother.  Dean sure seemed to have a type, and it wasn’t tall, awkward, and fraternal.

It was a blow to Sam.  To realize that he’d never really gotten over Dean.  It had been easy to tell himself it was just a childish crush—a product of too much togetherness, and hero worship.  But watching someone else get to touch Dean, smile at Dean, while Sam had to frown and look away and avert his eyes…it was too much.  The feelings were still there.  Sam had never gotten over anything.

Sam watched Dean send another girl—petite, curvy, bubbly—on her way and then hunch his back, expression pained.  Dean’s hips tilted up against the bar stool he was leaning against and pulsed, once, twice. Sam swallowed hard and strode over.

“C’mon, before you hump the jukebox next,” Sam growled, but his hand was gentle on Dean’s arm.

“I’ll buy it a drink first, I swear,” Dean answered with a brittle grin before following Sam out to the parking lot.

Sitting side by side in the impala, Dean clutched at the steering wheel, banged his forehead against it once, then sighed, left hand fumbling against the fly of his jeans.  Sam sat rigidly next to him, annoyed, hurt, aroused.

“How long is this going to go on?” Sam asked tiredly.

“I don’t know, man!”

“Talk to me, Dean.  How do we break the curse?”

“Just give me time.”

“This is driving you crazy, and me along with you!” Sam exclaimed. “Just spit it out and let me help you fix it, already!”

“You want to fix this?  Fine, fix it!” Then Dean was grabbing Sam’s hand and shoving it up against the crotch of Dean’s jeans.

Dean’s dick—hard, straining against the denim—gave a jerk under Sam’s hand.  But before Sam could cup the length of it in his palm like he wanted, press up firmly against Dean’s balls, Dean was pushing Sam’s hand away with a curse.

“Shit, Sam.  Sammy, I’m sorry.”  Dean was breathing hard, his eyes large and spooked.  He looked at Sam, and Sam looked right back and could suddenly see it.  What Dean had been waiting for all these long weeks. What Dean wanted and needed.

“I don’t think you are,” Sam growled and shoved Dean against the side of the car.  Dean’s hands came up and slapped against the glass, ring on one finger making a sharp, clinking sound, and then Sam was pawing at this brother, running greedy hands down Dean’s chest, pushing up his t-shirt,  grappling with the buttons on his fly.

“Sam—“

“Shut up, Dean!”

Pink satin and lace peeking out from the dull, rough fabric of Dean’s blue jeans,  Sam yanked at Dean’s waistband, tugging the pants off Dean’s ass. Then Dean was lifting up, kicking his jeans down.  His lean thighs, lightly furred with blond hair, spread easily under Sam’s hands, and Sam ran his palm up, up, swooping around to gather handfuls of Dean’s ass in his grip, warm rough flesh under his palms and tender silk running along the backs of his hands.

“How long?”

“Sam—“

“How long have you wanted this, too?” Sam asked, desperation and anger in his voice.  He wasn’t wrong, he couldn’t be.  Every way that Dean had been up in Sam’s personal space since they’d hit the road together, his body on display, hadn’t been to prove that everything was cool, and that Sam no longer wanted Dean.  It had been an offering, a plea.  A mating dance and Sam had been too gun-shy to read the signs.

“As long as you,” Dean admitted, mouth trembling.

“Asshole,” Sam muttered and Dean didn’t deny it. “And what do these—“Sam puffed a heated breath on the pink cloth covering Dean’s cock and heard his brother curse “—have to say about me, Dean? Are they going to reject me, like you did?”

“No,” Dean whispered.

“What do I need to do? What do you need me to do?”

“Just,” Dean gasped as Sam pressed his mouth to the satin. “Do what you want Sam.  Do what you want.”

Sam bent his head and licked a long stripe up the front of Dean’s cock, satin rasping against his tongue.  After weeks on Dean’s body, he was expecting no small amount of body odor.  But all he could smell, strangely enough, was peonies. Feminine and floral, lightly mixed with the heady smell that was his brother’s clean flesh.  Underneath Sam’s tongue, the pink fabric darkened, dampened, clinging to the outline of Dean’s cock.

“God.  Goddamn, Sam.”

“Will it…will it let me?” Sam asked, fingers creeping up to the lace clinging to his brother’s stomach.  He tugged, gently, and the dainty scrap of fancy came away slightly, letting Dean’s cock peek out the top, glossy at the tip with pre-come.  But as Sam tried to tug down, to free the pretty prize nestled under the cloth, his fingers met resistance.

“Guess not.”

“Okay.  I can work with that.”  Sam slipped the tip of Dean’s dick between his lips, salty-sweet on his tongue.  He sucked gently, swirled his tongue around the head, dipping under the fabric as much as he could, lapping at the shaft and all along Dean’s stomach. Sam felt fingers tighten in his hair, pushing down even as Dean canted his hips higher.

“More!”

Sam suckled with pursed lips, sucking the tip of Dean’s cock over and over, coaxing more wetness into his mouth.  With one hand, he pulled and stroked at the shaft hidden under its silky covering.  He slid his other hand down, toying with the fluttery edges of Dean’s undergarment, the place where the cloth tucked sweetly against Dean’s balls. Sam’s long fingers stroked over the taut fabric, winding between the hot flesh of Dean’s sac and dark, sweat-wet place between his cheeks.

“Christ, Sam!”

The hand at the back of Sam’s head pressed harder as Sam corkscrewed his middle finger against Dean’s hole, sinking in gentle and shallow, with only sweat to ease the way.  Sam could feel Dean’s blunt nails digging into his scalp.  He gave Dean’s cock tip one last hungry lap, and then nibbled down to suck strong and wet at Dean’s balls through the fabric.  As Dean moaned, Sam pulled his big brother’s sac into his mouth--taste flowers and flesh--his own spit dripping down his chin, and sucked fiercely.  His finger sank inside Dean—hungrily drawn down into dark, plush heat—and Dean bucked, cried out, and came all over himself.

“Did it work?” Sam managed to ask, pulling back a bit.  He was panting.  All he could smell now was Dean, that sharp, yeasty smell, come and sweat teasing his nose.  His own impatient cock was throbbing painfully in his jeans.  Dean lay back against the fogged up windows of the car, legs open, belly trembling with his breaths.  The dainty pink tap pants looked much worse for wear; the fabric was darkened with spit and spattered white from Dean’s come.

“I…I think.”  With a wriggle, Dean worked the bit of lingerie off his hips, let it fall in a sad puddle to the floorboards. Like a battered rose petal, innocuous and sad.  Dean looked up at his brother and tried to smile. “Sam, I—“

He wasn’t sure what Dean could see written on his face, but Sam no longer cared.  He was tired of hiding. “Turn around,” Sam growled, and his hands were on Dean’s haunches, spinning Dean around and pressing his brother’s cheek to the steamed up glass of the window.

Hungry. Sam had been hungry for years.  He ripped open his own jeans and shoved them down around his knees, then climbed up on the seat to press his hard cock against the sweet curve of Dean’s ass.  Sam groaned the minute his skin met all the sweat-pricked heat of Dean’s naked body.

“Um…”

“If you’re going to shove me away, do it now.”

“No.  No, Sam.”

“What is it?”  The golden curve of Dean’s neck beckoned to Sam.  He gripped with his teeth, tongue lashing at the sensitive skin under Dean’s strong jaw.  He felt more than heard a whine issue from his brother’s mouth.  Sam was slick with sweat, clothes damp and clinging.  He dragged his cock roughly against the crease of Dean’s ass.

“I’m not asking you to stop to wine and dine me, but if you try to shove that freak of nature up my ass without any lube I will punch it off.”

Giving a dark chuckle, Sam gripped the outside of Dean thighs and pressed his brother’s legs together. He pressed his cock between Dean’s legs, hot and silky-smooth at the nearly hairless slope of Dean’s inner thigh, and set to riding his big brother.  Naked, every inch of Sam felt sensitized and raw, open to Dean just as Dean was open to him.  He snarled, levering one hand up to yank Dean’s t-shirt to the side so he could lave and nip at the freckled sweep of Dean’s shoulder.

“Oh God.”

“Hold me, Dean,” Sam gasped, thrusting harder as Dean tightened his thighs.  It was rough, the near painful friction sparking something wild in Sam. “Make me come.”

“Fuck, Sam.  Fuck.”

Sam came hard, biting down on Dean’s shoulder with a roar, vision graying out.  Caught in the firm cradle of his brother’s thighs, Sam’s cock jerked, spraying hot and heavy, marking Dean.

Still breathing heavy, Sam backed off.  He pushed his back up against the passenger side door, pulled his pants back into place.  Dean knelt on the seat for a moment, sides heaving, the delectable curve of his ass still turned up.  Like some fleshy peach, and Sam was tempted to take a bite.  But he sat still. Not reaching out, not speaking, Sam let Dean slowly turn on one hip, reaching down to awkwardly tug his jeans back into place, covering the mess they’d both made.

“Not putting them back on?” Sam asked quietly when they were both more or less put to rights and staring awkwardly at each other in the stilted silence.

“They did their job.”

“Jesus, that was a stupid thing to do, Dean.”

“It worked.” Dean gave a lop-sided smile.

“Why didn’t…why didn’t you just say something?  All these years…you made me feel like a freak.”

“I was scared, Sam,” Dean said defensively and Sam knew how much those words cost his brother. “I’m sorry about how it went down back then.  This seemed like an easy fix, you know.  Beating a curse, together.  But then I chickened out…again.  I’m sorry.”

“You did it on purpose,” Sam confirmed. “You raided a long dead prostitute’s unholy lingerie drawer.  Because that seemed so much easier than talking to me about it.  What were the instructions, anyway?”

“It just had to be someone I wanted and who wanted me too.  And…you’re who I want, Sam.”

Sam sat and fell silent.

“Say something, man.”

“I’m thinking,” Sam responded finally.  He looked over at Dean, who was still fumbling to fix his fly, seemingly uninclined to break their intense eye contact.  _What Sam wanted_.  It was right in front of him, suddenly, miraculously willing.  Dean. But it wasn’t quite right.  On a hunch, Sam leaned in, brushed his lips against Dean’s plush mouth. For a moment, he felt the wet warmth of Dean’s mouth, breath sharp and smoky from whiskey, rise up to meet his own. Then Dean jerked his head back, knocking against the window with a dull thud.  One hand came up to shove at Sam’s shoulder, and all of a sudden Sam was sixteen again.  He might be taller now, bigger, wiser, but it was the same.  The angle was different, but the sentiment was the same.

“I thought so.”

“What more do you want, Sam?” Dean exploded. “Isn’t it enough that I’m saying yes?  What, you want a relationship?  Which one of us is the girl in this scenario?”

“It’s me,” Sam said tiredly. “Because I’m the only one who’s not too chicken to go after what I want.”

“What do you think this is, some romantic comedy?  What, you’re just a boy, standing in front of his brother, begging him to love him?”

“For someone who claims to hate chick-flicks, you sure have the important lines memorized,” Sam retorted.  He swept his hair off his forehead and sighed. “I’ve said it all before.  Put it all out on the table years ago.  My feelings haven’t changed.  All or nothing.”

Pushing open the passenger door, Sam made to untuck his long frame and get out of the car.  He wasn’t sure what would happen now.  Winchesters were good at suppressing their feelings.  Dean might be willing to carry on as if none of this had ever happened.  But Sam wasn’t sure if he could sit shotgun next to his brother now, knowing they both wanted the same thing and were somehow too emotionally stunted to reach for it.

 “Wait.” Dean’s hand was on Sam’s wrist, warm and slightly sweaty.  He shifted restlessly under Sam’s gaze. “I’ll try.  Dammit, Sam.  This is hard for me, but I’ll try.”

“Okay,” Sam whispered, not sure if it really was.  He wanted to kiss Dean, to taste that sweet-sour mouth.  But asking for a kiss now seemed like a test.

As if reading his mind, Dean leaned in, brushed his mouth to Sam’s.  It was gentle, but Dean’s damp lips lingered against Sam’s mouth for a long moment, before he pulled away.

“I’ll try,” Dean repeated and it was enough.

“Okay.”

“You had me at ‘hello’,” Dean said, grinning, and Sam groaned.

“I rest my case.”

“Hey, that’s a football movie.  It doesn’t count,” Dean protested.

“Whatever, Renee,” Sam said and he smiled a bit, too.  It wasn’t where they had been; there were too many things still left unsaid. But maybe they didn’t need to uncover everything all at once.  Everything they were too afraid or too proud to mention, would come with time.

“Let’s go,” Dean said, starting the car.

Sam eased the door closed.  He looked down and saw the hexed pink tap pants draped on the toe of his boot.  He quickly pushed them back and under the seat.

They might be worth hanging on to.

 


End file.
